XII. A Shroud of Moth and Shadow

mold. A legion of moths with their powder-grey wings, Is humming a chorus of terrible things. They land on the eyelids, they feast on the sight, To turn every vision to tunnels of night.

I’m draped in a mantle of shadow and dust, With a scent like the lilac and a flavor of rust. It clings to the shoulders, it winds round the throat, A heavy and lightless and bottomless coat. The fringe is of cobwebs, the buttons of bone, Carved from a heart that was turned into stone.

“Wrap yourself,” whispers the ghost of the seam, “In the delicate rot of a vanishing dream.” I try to unravel the threads from my chest, But the more that I struggle, the tighter they rest. The floor is dissolving, the walls are all silk, And the moon has turned sour, like vinegar milk.

You’ll walk through the manor, a specter in lace, With the wings of a thousand moths masking your face. For the shroud is a hunger that’s soft to the touch, And it loves you too little, and holds you too much.